The father grips the wheel, eyes far past the road, A sweater stitched with cheerful noise. The mother sighs through tinted glass, Lipstick cracked like winter skin. In the backseat, the boy stares hard, Too small to know the cost of silence. Beside him, a man half-formed— Frosted breath masking forgotten words. Outside, the signs scream louder than they speak, Red ink blurring into snow. Inside, the family hums, Held together by nothing but motion.